


A Silent Night

by EnduringChill



Series: Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Christmas Party, Declarations Of Love, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is shocked when Sherlock turns up at the Met Holiday party. He's even more shocked when he starts chatting up a detective at the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts), [221BJen (jcoz1701)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/gifts).



> This is the 1st part to a three part Christmas series which will most likely be finished in February. Inspiration for this struck late in the season. These stand alone with Christmas and John and Sherlock being the only common denominator. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely editors/friends. Their help and inspiration fuel me to keep writing.
> 
> I hope you have a happy holiday and New Year. May you be happy and healthy. 
> 
> The part of Tom Levitt is played by Joseph Gordon Levitt.

The pub has become stuffy, almost suffocating. Perhaps it is the two beers John has downed in less than an hour. Maybe it's that every bloody officer and detective at the Met has crammed into The Iron Cock for the annual ‘holiday’ party. Colourful lights snake along the walls and line the foggy windows. 

 

An hour ago, Sherlock had walked through the door of the crowded pub to John's shock. He had mentioned to the surly detective who barely hummed in response. When John had left, his flatmate had seemed too busy mixing noxious liquids and furiously scribbling notes - so busy he had not bothered to respond to a farewell.

 

But two hours later, Sherlock walks in wearing the crimson shirt John had given him for his birthday last year. John fucking loves that damn shirt and the way Sherlock looks in it. And when Sherlock pushes through the door, John forgets that he is chatting up Celia, the new clerk. 

 

For the first hour, he pretends to be annoyed that Sherlock hovers over the conversation. Yet when he moves to the bar, John can't help but follow him with his eyes. He watches Greg lean against his fist and mumble into the new pint of beer Sherlock has bought, while dark curls nod distractedly. John knows that Sherlock gives no fucks about what is being said. He's most likely deducing affairs, liars and anything to keep himself from being bored.

 

In the first ninety minutes, Sherlock has had his ear bent by Greg, and now Molly. She rattles on while fiddling nervously with her hair. She looks lovely in the red velvet dress she has worn just in case Sherlock had turned up. She doesn't care that his eyes dart around the room like a bird looking for an open window. Or that he only hums in response with a forced smile - the one John calls creepy.

 

John is drawn into a lively debate about rugby or Gaelic football. He waves his arms around, and even raises his voice. It's all in good fun though with hearty guffaws, slaps on the back and another round of drinks. As a sweaty John slides his way to the bar, he realises that he's lost track of Sherlock who had been uncomfortably cornered by the new detective, Levitt. 

 

Once he reaches the crowded bar, he cranes his neck around the room. His eyes catch on two figures seated at the bar. Sherlock looks less uncomfortable with Levitt now, and that makes John a little uncomfortable. 

 

Detective Tom Levitt had recently joined the forensics team at Met. He was young, but not brash. He was affable but not boisterous. A good looking guy but not exceptional; just an average man. The only thing that had made Tom Levitt stand out is that he was American. No one had really explained the circumstances of his post in London, but John hadn't really cared. Until now, that is.

 

 

Tom looks as if he's just come from work with a loosened necktie and his shirtsleeves rolled over surprisingly toned forearms. He talks with his hands and his face is very expressive. John wouldn't normally notice this except for the fact that Sherlock hangs on his every word. He leans forward and makes eye contact. Most of the time he doesn't give John such rapt attention. What could this guy be saying to have Sherlock enraptured?

 

John orders two beers and a shot of whiskey. He stares Sherlock down hoping to catch his attention to no avail. John doesn't like the way Tom’s face brightens when Sherlock smirks, or the dimples that form when he smiles at the handsome detective. Sherlock is drinking something with bubbles and a lime. Vodka or gin? Either one is curious as he's only seen Sherlock drink wine, the occasional scotch or even on a very rare occasion - a pint. While John waits for his drinks, the bartender drops another round for Sherlock and Tom, which Sherlock pays for. 

 

John definitely feels ill. The room becomes too noisy with lousy Christmas music, bawdy voices and garish blinking lights. 

 

“Hey,” Greg says over his shoulder. “Service slow?”

 

“Yeah,” John drops his eyes to the bar. “They only have one bloody bartender on tonight. It's ridiculous.”

 

“A few of us were thinking of going to Doyle’s around the corner,” Greg says. “Bit more peaceful.”

 

“Maybe after this round.” Perhaps John can pull Sherlock away from Tom before….

 

John shakes his head. This is Sherlock; Mr. Married To The Work. This is a man that just doesn't do relationships or sex. Sure, Tom Levitt might attempt to get a leg over, but with Sherlock? John shakes his head. Not possible. 

 

The bartender drops the beers and shot in front of John.

 

But why is Sherlock even talking to an unremarkable American, and what is that smirk about?

 

John tosses some money on the bar with one hand while the other brings the shot to his lips. It's the cheap house whiskey, and it burns all the same going down his throat to warm his chest. The taste is so bitter that he takes a large gulp of beer to help wash it down. 

 

“Jesus mate,” Greg watches with wide eyed fascination. “You okay?”

 

“Fine.” John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Service is slow, so I need to make them count.”

 

“We'll head out after this one,” Greg says.

 

But they don't. 

 

Dimmock comes round to buy another round. It's another shot of shit whiskey, followed by a beer. John's head grows heavy and fuzzy. He's tuned out of the conversation around him and tries to read the body language across the bar. It hasn't crossed the line in John's mind, but it steps very close. Tom is doing most of the advancing, but Sherlock has not shut down. There's no mask or closing off of personal space. Another drink magically appears and John swears he sees Tom wink at the bartender.

 

He needs to stop this, whatever this is. But first, he needs to piss. When he gets back, he'll suggest that they leave, and he'll drag Sherlock with them. His flatmate will appreciate John saving him from the very ordinary Tom Levitt.

 

As John winds through the crush of bodies, he trains his eyes on Sherlock. He's fucking laughing, no giggling. Tom’s hand is on his shoulder and his lips are far too close to the shell of Sherlock's ear. But John has to piss so badly that if he detours now, he'll make an awful fool of himself as he wets his trousers. 

 

But it would make Sherlock leave to take John home, he thinks sluggishly. No, it's still not the way he wants this to go down.

 

What does John want to happen? He's not sure exactly. 

 

No, he wants Sherlock to giggle with him, not Tom or Molly or anyone. If Sherlock is going to flirt with anyone, it should be him. If Sherlock's going to get a leg over….

 

“Excuse me.” Anderson bumps into John as he pushes out of the loo.

 

“Arsehole,” John mutters, but has forgotten where his train of thought had been heading.

 

What was fucking special about Tom Levitt? He is average height, maybe even a bit shorter than John. He might be a few years younger, but John can see a definite receding hairline. Nothing about Tom Levitt is fascinating or extraordinary. Except on the few occasions they've had to work with him, Sherlock had been almost civil, bordering on cordial. At the time, John hadn't given it much thought. Perhaps Sherlock's harder, more tactless edges are finally smoothing over. It couldn't be anymore than that?

 

And what if it is? Everything John believes about Sherlock will crumble like the Berlin Wall. It's not that his handsome flatmate doesn't do  _ those  _ things; he just doesn't want to do them with John.

 

Oh God, what if they start dating? If John has to come home to them snuggled on the couch? Or watch them disappear into Sherlock's bedroom? Will John have to hear muffled giggles, moans and Sherlock calling another man’s name in ecstasy?

 

He braces his hand against the cool tile wall as he concentrates on not falling over or pissing on his shoes. The room vibrates and shimmies. No more whiskey, that's for sure. He manages to get to the sink and turn on the cold tap. Cupping the water in his hands, he brings shaky hands up to drink. The water tastes like pennies, but he needs something to settle his stomach. 

 

After a few gulps, he splashes some on his face. The mirror images doesn't lie. His flushed puffy face blinks back at him. While Tom Levitt is ordinary, he's more remarkable than the man staring back at John.

 

No, this can't happen, John decides. Sherlock must be drunk. How many drinks has Tom bought him? A sober Sherlock would never be seduced. If Irene couldn't do it, then plain Tom

Levitt doesn't have a prayer.

 

Wetting his hands, John runs his fingers through his hair to carefully dishevel the fringe into a style that is less reliable John Watson and more like Three Continents John Watson.

 

If all else fails, he can always bring Celia home and drown out Tom Levitt.

 

John exits the loo and casts his eyes toward the bar. His insides brace for whatever is about to unfold. Anxiety is quickly replaced by panic as two new people occupy the spots where Sherlock and Tom had been sitting just moments before. 

 

His head whips around so fast, his neck pops. It's doesn't help that everyone is fuzzy and muted. Damn cheap whiskey. He should have known better, kept his wits about him. 

 

Are Sherlock and Tom already heading home? Would they go to Tom’s? John rubs his forehead. Would that be worse? Sherlock has certainly stayed out all night. Usually John is concerned about drugs, but tonight….his mind plays tricks on him. Playing out a scene from one of his hidden gay porns. He can see Sherlock’s milky neck stretched out for Tom’s thin lips as they twist around each other, writhing, moaning. 

 

John shakes his head. Get yourself together, he curses his brain. Just find Sherlock. Now.

 

Everyone moves in slow motion around him, as if stuck in vaseline. Faces look familiar but distorted. His pounding heart matches the headache that creeps up from his neck. Sherlock is not at the bar. John whirls around to the door. His eyes search frantically for the head of dark curls. Would he leave without telling John? Of course he would. This is Sherlock. 

 

“Ready?” Greg asks with his jacket in hand. 

 

“I was looking for Sherlock,” John says. 

 

“He’s in a booth with Tom Levitt.” Greg points to the darkest corner of the bar. “I think…”

 

John doesn’t hear the rest of Greg’s words as he pushes through swaying bodies to cross the room as quick as possible. 

 

“Merry Christmas, John!” Donovan swerves in his way. 

 

“Yeah, yeah...you too,” he barely makes eye contact. 

 

“What are you doing…” Donovan doesn’t finish her question as John tears his wavering gaze away from her face. 

 

Squinting, he can make out two figures seated on the same side of the booth. Blue Christmas lights outline the curls on Sherlock's head. John feels the burn of bile rising in his throat. He cannot lose control now. Unfortunately, one cannot just will sobriety once the beer has been ingested. Taking a deep breath to steady his wild thoughts and erratic nerves, he pushes closer.

 

Tom’s arm rest along the back of the booth, his stubby fingers dangle close to Sherlock's shoulder. His body is completely open to the flushed genius. John's mouth goes dry when he sees the deep vee of alabaster skin exposed by Sherlock's loose shirt. John knows he wasn't this unraveled when he had entered the pub. He notices the slow blink of his friend’s silvery eyes. Another drink with lime sits in front Sherlock. The ice has melted leaving the wedge of lime to float aimlessly in the glass.

 

John hears someone call his name. A female voice not far behind him. He's afraid to take his eyes off the booth, but he must to stop the incessant calling. 

 

Celia’s mouth moves and her arm extends a bottle in his direction. He would have to change trajectory to respond or accept her offer. He cannot abandon his mission now. He needs to get there before…

 

The next thirty seconds move in slow motion for John. He turns back to the booth to see Sherlock lean in closer while Tom Levitt’s stubby fingers drop from the back of the booth to bury themselves into the damp curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. Tom Levitt with the receding hairline launches himself forward to press thin lips to sumptuous full lips. John hopes the screaming is only in his head, or he's about to draw a lot of attention to himself. His legs do not carry him forward as fast as he needs as everything go red when Sherlock’s jaw opens and Tom Levitt's tongue slips inside.

 

“Stop!” John hears the words, but isn't certain who shouts them. 

 

His arm stretches so far ahead of him that he feels something snap inside. Roughly, his fingers claw at Sherlock's crimson shirt.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sherlock rages into John’s wide eyes.

 

“What's he doing?” John knows that's what he has said but it doesn't sound like that in his ears.

 

Tom Levitt hovers his short frame over Sherlock possessively. “I think you should move on. You've clearly had too much, pal.”

 

“Pal?” John's fists curl into balls so tight that his knuckles crack with a pop-pop.

 

The rage that had flashed on Sherlock’s flushed cheeks melts into confusion. “John?”

 

Tom Levitt's hand cups Sherlock's shoulder. “Come on, we can go back to my place.”

 

Sherlock scans the semicircle of people that have gathered around the booth. Tom moves him out of booth and reaches for the Belstaff folded neatly on the opposite bench. 

 

“My apartment isn't far,” Tom Levitt announces.

 

John can't find his voice. He's made a scene in front of all the people that know him. Celia lingers on the fringe of crowd with a furrowed brow. Greg’s eyes him up and down.

 

Sherlock snaps his mouth closed and allows Tom to help into his coat. In twenty minutes time, he will allow Tom to help him out of his clothes. 

 

“Sherlock,” he croaks, his throat raw from shit whiskey.

 

“I'm…,” is all Sherlock mumbles before Tom Levitt ushers him out of the bar.

 

John can't move his legs to stop him. While Sherlock doesn't wrap his hand around Tom’s, he does follow the shorter man out of the pub.

 

“John.” Greg touches his shoulder and sends him out of his own skin. “Hey, are you alright?”

 

Slowly, John waves his head from side to side. “No. I'm bloody done.”

 

“Too much to drink?” Greg offers lightheartedly.

 

“Tons to think, er, drink.”

 

Sherlock is going home with Tom fucking Levitt. 

 

“Did you still want to come to Doyle’s with us?” Greg asks.

 

John should go to bloody Doyle’s with Greg. He looks over Dimmock’s shoulder to see Celia in her grey wool coat with expectant eyes. Damn right, he should go to Doyle’s, then bring Celia back to Baker Street to shag her right on the Chesterfield. Or better yet, have her ride his cock on Sherlock's precious chair. Maybe he bend her over the cluttered kitchen table. 

 

But he is fooling himself, because he barely feels interested in shagging Celia. He can only see Sherlock and Tom motherfucking Levitt rolling around naked on red silk sheets. 

 

John swallows the acidic vomit that rises up from his turning stomach. “I'm gonna go home, mate.”

 

Greg pats him on the shoulder. “Do you need me to see you there?”

 

For a half second, John considers propositioning Greg. That'll get Sherlock, to stumble home from his night out to find John and Greg naked on the Chesterfield covered in lube. The notion is so ridiculous that a high pitched giggle escapes his mouth.

 

“I'm good. Celia could use a ride though,” John mutters.

 

Greg winks. “Right. Send me a text so I know you're alright. I don't feel good about letting you leave in this state.”

 

“I invaded Afghanistan.” John waves clumsily. “I'm fine.”

 

He just wants to go home. Maybe pour another drink. Maybe vomit. Definitely crawl under the covers and possibly cry. In fact, he feels the tears prickling the corners of his blurry eyes. He needs to get outside and away from people now.

 

As he navigates through the throngs of bodies, John nods and waves. He doesn't dare make eye contact. Tomorrow, he will excuse his strange behaviour on the booze. Tonight, he needs to get the fuck out.

 

He doesn't expect to shuffle into a mound of fluffy snow on the ground. He blinks as he looks up to the sky. Fat crystalline flakes whip around him. Was this expected? Why not? He looks down the road to see a taxi at a stop light. Is Sherlock snuggled beside Tom in that cab? Why not?

 

“Fuck,” John growls. He's not certain of the time, but the surrounding stores are closed. Their festive Christmas displays taunt John who is certain he will never feel happiness again.

 

Angrily, he kicks the snow and loses his footing. He lands flat on his back. The flakes sting his face as they drives against his cheeks. 

 

“You okay?” A man asks.

 

“Lovely.”John closes his eyes. The snow soaks through his sweater. Where is his coat? Bollocks, he swears. He is not going back into the pub for it. 

 

He hauls himself up, using a store window to steady his swaying body. He's far too drunk to attempt this journey home on his own, but here he is. Alone. 

 

Images of Sherlock on all fours with Tom fucking Levitt  thrusting behind him seeps into John's mind as he shuffles down the street. The tears that had been threatening moments ago, spillover red rimmed eyes. 

 

He sees Sherlock's craning neck as he moans Tom’s name. That lovely neck is defiled with purple bruises in the shape of Tom’s tiny mouth. 

 

No matter how hard John shakes his head, he cannot stop the images of Sherlock and Tom. His face is streaked with a mixture of salty tears and melted snow. With the back of his hand, he wipes the snot from his nose. He's a fucking mess, but he cannot stop. His shoulders shake from the cold and hysterics he's worked himself into. 

 

Would Sherlock kneel before Tom to suck him off? Are Tom's ugly stubby fingers buried in Sherlock's luscious curls as he guides those lips over his cock? 

 

Overcome, John leans against the window of a toy store. lights twinkle painting the newly fallen snow in a colourful mosaic. He hangs his head and tries to catch his breath. A couple huddled together against the driving snow pass him and call, “Happy Christmas!”

 

If John could feel his fingers, he would flip them off. Instead he raises a hand and wanly says, “Yeah, sure.”

 

He might as well sit on the steps of the store and just close his eyes for bit. It's not like anyone is waiting at home for him. The fireplace is cold and dusty. Sherlock’s chair is empty.

 

He hears a car pull up beside him. Maybe he can at least grab a taxi. Although, he's not ready to face anyone, not even a surly cab driver who has probably seen worse than a grown man snivelling and drunk. Muffled by the sputtering car, a man’s voice makes an exasperated plea. John can't make out the words, and he just wants these people to go away. A car door slams and the car’s tire squeal as the spin on the slippery pavement. 

 

“I'll get the next one,” John mutters and folds his arms around himself. 

 

The snow crunches underneath the approaching footsteps. John prays that this misguided soul buggers off and doesn't feel the need to be charitable. He knows he looks a fright with a snow clinging to an ugly holiday jumper, his wet hair plastered to his head. 

 

“Just please leave me,” he mumbles weakly. 

 

“John? John!” 

 

John must be clinging to death because he's just heard Sherlock's voice. His Sherlock is having his throat examined by Tom Bloody Levitt’s tongue in the back of a taxi.

 

Warm hands cup his frozen face. “John! For Christ’s sake, where is your coat?”

 

Teeth chattering, John looks up into Sherlock's equally bloodshot eyes. Until now, he had felt fairly numb to the cold. Suddenly, he can't stop from shaking.

 

“What’re you doing here?” His lips feel sluggish.

 

“I was heading back to the Iron Cock,” Sherlock replies.

 

“That's what she said,” John attempts to joke. Sherlock stares blankly into his face. “What did you forget?”

 

“I came back for you,” Sherlock says.

 

“I don't do that,” John snaps. Does Sherlock think he wants to be part of some orgy?

 

“Do what?” Sherlock blinks rapidly.

 

“Threesomes. I'm not going to be part of whatever you and Tom Levitt have planned,” he flails his arms and keels off balance. His back smacks against the store window.

 

“You'll have to excuse me, John. I've had more alcohol than I'm accustomed to, so I really don't understand a word you're saying.” Sherlock frowns.

 

The snow collects in Sherlock’s hair like tiny diamonds. Even while getting off with another man, he's still bloody gorgeous.

 

“I'm talkin’ bout sex! You know, the thing no one thought you did. You're gonna do it with Tom Levitt and you want me to watch or join and I'm not gonna. I won't do it!” John rants as he pushes himself off the window. How is possible to feel even drunker than ten minutes ago?

 

Sherlock searches his face and shifts his weight. “Why do you care?”

 

“I don't. Not anymore. It's not that you don't fuck, you just don't fuck me.” It feels good to get that off his chest. The gears in his brain turn slowly. What did he just say?

 

“Is that something you want, John?” Sherlock's voice is low and husky. 

 

“Um…” What is the right answer? John licks his dry lips. Christ, he would kill for some water. Or even a mouthful of snow. 

 

“Do you want me to fuck you instead of Detective Levitt?” Sherlock is inches from John’s face. 

 

“I…” He doesn't even care about the stale gin on Sherlock's breath, because he's here and he's talking about sex. “Do you?”

 

“Do I what? Want to have intercourse with you?” Sherlock cocks his head.

 

John stares at his lips. “Tom? Do you want him? You kissed him.”

 

“No, he kissed me.”

 

John scowls. “You didn't stop him.”

 

“You didn't give me a chance.” Sherlock leans against the store window. “Why did you stop him?”

 

John looks at the snow by Sherlock's feet. “I didn't like him touching you.”

 

Sherlock shrugs. “You were talking with that insipid clerk.”

 

Sherlock is right. John had hoped to get a leg over with that clerk, but only because Sherlock is or was asexual or uninterested. Never once has his flatmate ever shown any interest in anything more intimate than an evening on the sofa watching bad telly. 

 

“You were gazing at Tom. It was…” John rubs his head, “weird. Unsettling. Awful.”

 

Once again, Sherlock is inches from John. Suddenly, the haze of alcohol lifts and everything is very sharp. John hears each snowflake hit the ground. He feels the frost that escapes from Sherlock's parted lips. The way the twinkling lights reflect in Sherlock ebony hair is the most beautiful thing John has seen.

 

“You never answered my question. Do you want to be intimate with me?” Sherlock whispers.

 

Despite the fact that he's soaked to the bone and numb, heat pools between John's leg. His cock fills with blood and a need that shakes him more than the cold.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherlock crushes him against the window with his body. Large hands frame John's face and shaky lips cover his. It feels less fluid than the kiss with fucking Tom Levitt, but it's so much more passionate. John nearly fights Sherlock so he can open his mouth. When he feels the tip of Sherlock's tongue brush against his, he fists the Belstaff to meld their mouths together. They fight for control, moaning and biting. Teeth clash and steam rises from their lips. As John's knees give out, Sherlock supports him with his body weight. 

 

“I thought you were gonna fuck that bloody American.” John rests his forehead against Sherlock's.

 

“Never.” He nips at John's lips.

 

“Why did you leave with him?” John cants his hips.

 

Sherlock works a hand between them to unbutton his coat. “I had too much gin which numbs my brain. When I came to the party and you were so focused on that clerk,” he says gruffly, “I ordered a gin and tonic. After two, detective Levitt wasn't terrible company. I had a sense that he was attracted to me. I hate to admit this, but I was enjoying the attention. I never intended for him to become physical.” He presses himself to a damp John. “My brain was sluggish and between the kiss and your interceding, I blanked.”

 

John opens his mouth to respond, but Sherlock cuts off his words with his tongue. He presses a very real erection into John's pelvic bone. John can't help but moan. He feels hazy, but not from booze anymore. He pulls his mouth away and Sherlock hisses his protest until John’s teeth graze his jawline to nibble on the long stretch of pale flesh from his ear to his collarbone. He grinds his erection against Sherlock's thigh as he sucks hard until he can taste the blood rise up to surface. He can smell Tom’s cheap cologne on Sherlock's skin, and John nibbles harder eliciting a moan from the genius. Tomorrow, Sherlock will bear John's mark on his neck for everyone to see.

 

“Fuck,” Sherlock growls and pulls John away from the brightly coloured window to a narrow alley two stores away.

 

John's head hits the brick with a thud. It's possible that he'll have a lump in the morning, but he doesn't care. Sherlock's lips are traveling down his throat while his hands pull the shirt out of his trousers. Cold fingers graze his stomach and hips while they maneuver to unfasten the belt. Sherlock pulls back to look at John with eyes so black with lust like look like coal. He crushes his lips to John's for a kiss that will certainly bruise before dropping to squat with his mouth at belt level. 

 

John swears that the sound of his zipper echoes off the buildings in the dirty alley. He flinches when the cold air hits his cock. But Sherlock hot breath encloses the head. John peels his head from the wall to look down just as long fingers wrap around his flushed cock. A sinful tongue presses to the slot where preejaculate has leaked. He pinches himself. He must have passed out in the doorway of a store and he's hallucinating. Reality crashes back to him as the warmth of Sherlock mouth engulfs him. Slowly at first, while Sherlock's tongue caresses the vein. Then Sherlock grips John's hips to pull him all the way to the back of his throat until his nose is buried in the coarse hair surrounding John's cock. Sherlock pulls back, only to surge forward again. Tenderly, John combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair while he gets fucked by the most amazing mouth. He's heard insults tumble from those lips. Wonderful deductions have sprung out of this throat. Nothing compares to watching his cock being swallowed over and over by those ridiculous lips. Normally John would close his eyes and enjoy the ride, but he cannot look away. Especially when Sherlock looks up. 

 

“Fuck Sherlock. Jesus….” He hisses.

 

Without warning, Sherlock picks up the pace and slides a hand along the inside of John's thigh to cup his scrotum. In the distance, voices ring out in the winter night. Even though they draw close, Sherlock doesn't stop and John's hips move slightly with the motion. He's so close. 

 

“I'm going to come, Sherlock. Watch out, oh fuck.” He huffs. “I can't stop it…”

 

Sherlock presses a finger just behind John's scrotum, deliciously close to slipping between his cheeks. With voices dangerously close, John stuffs his fist in his mouth as he comes down Sherlock throat. He expects to see an audience when he turns to the alley opening, but it's only the falling snow. Deftly, Sherlock pops off John and tucks him back into his trousers before the cold air hits his spent cock. John pulls Sherlock forward to kiss him passionately. The salty taste of his semen lingers on Sherlock's tongue, a new experience for John. He doesn't mind. He would drink a gallon of his own sperm if it came with kissing Sherlock. He doesn't want to think how a man supposed to be a virgin could go down on a man with such skill.

 

Sherlock's prominent erection presses against John's belly as they melt into each other. Quickly, he works the flies of the bespoke trousers to slide his hand over coarse hairs leading to Sherlock’s hot cock. 

 

“Do you want me to return the favour?” He purrs against Sherlock's cheek.

 

“Just touch me for now. I'm so close to orgasm. Just touch me,” Sherlock whispers.

 

John wraps his hand around Sherlock and pulls gently at first. 

 

“More, God, more,” Sherlock mewls.

 

John's fist pumps faster. His thumb swipes over the head and Sherlock gasps. He feels his flatmate, er, lover tense in his arms.

 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles against his check as streams semen cover his hand and streak the bottom of his jumper. 

 

Sherlock raises his head to press a tender kiss to John's lips.

 

“Amazing, bloody amazing.” The alcohol hits John again as the serotonin levels fall. 

 

“Sorry about your jumper,” Sherlock murmurs as he sorts himself and buttons his coat.

 

John smirks. “You are not. You hate this jumper.”

 

“It is hideous, but most of your wardrobe borders on ridiculous.”

 

John wipes his hand on the defiled jumper. The wind howls into the alley and reminds John that he wet and without a coat or gloves. 

 

Sherlock wraps his around John's shoulders. “Let's get your coat.”

 

John shakes his head. “I made a bit of scene and I just want to go home with you.”

 

Sherlock hesitates, but nods. “Okay, let's get a taxi. Your clothes are damp and you're risking frostbite or hypothermia.”

 

“Okay Dr. Holmes,” John says through chattering teeth.

 

“Oh hell.” Quickly he removes his coat to wrap around a shivering John. 

 

“I've a jumper. You'll catch your death.” John protests.

 

“That jumper is wet.” Sherlock waves down a slow moving taxi. 

 

With a slight skid, the taxi pulls to the kerb. Sherlock opens the door and pushes a teetering John into the backseat before climbing in after him.

 

“You'll need a lukewarm shower when we get home,” Sherlock says.

 

“I just need to get out of these and a warm blanket.” He shudders against the deep chill that causes his bones to ache. “Maybe some body heat.”

 

“That's a cheap ploy to get me naked,” Sherlock smirks.

 

“Not if it works.” John leans close to run the tip of his nose along Sherlock's neck. “Besides, you stink like him, and I'd rather have you smell like me.”

 

Sherlock shivers but not from the cold. Despite the fact that they have an audience in the front seat, he tilts John's head back to kiss him thoroughly, exploring all the parts of his mouth. 

 

When they part, John feels dizzy. “I can't believe this is happening. I thought you were going to be with that Tom.”

 

“He believed that too. His hands groped me as soon as we got in the taxi. At first, I shut down. It was just my transport and wouldn't mean anything.” Sherlock turns to John. “As soon as he kissed me, I thought of you and your face. I hoped that my deduction was correct, that you were jealous and not overprotective because what you deduced of me. So I ordered the driver to turn around.”

 

“What did you tell him?”

 

“I told him that l left something important at the party.” He smiles broadly at John. “He knew then that nothing was going to happen.”

 

“Was he pissed?” John delights in the fact that Tom Levitt who had led Sherlock out of the pub looking like the cat who captured the canary was sulking at his ‘apartment’ at this very moment.

 

“Disappointed. He tried to change my mind. He flattered me, was very detailed in how he'd please me.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Nothing is kills a libido than desperation.”

 

John rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “You're not a virgin, are you?”

 

“No,” he replies softly. “Does that bother you?”

 

John reflects on the question. His thoughts bounce around like a racquet ball in his whiskey addled mind. Part of him feels betrayed as they've lost so much time. Has Sherlock been with other men all this time? Is that what he's been doing when he's out all night on a case?

 

“To answer your question, I haven't been intimate with someone in five years. That was the last time I was using drugs consistently. It wasn't penetrative, and I've been tested regularly since,” Sherlock says.

 

John's brain attempts to process this new information about Sherlock. Everything he's thought about this fantastic man has been turned on its head. 

 

“Have you…” 

 

“Only a few times. It was many years ago with someone I had trusted, unfortunately. I vowed to never associate emotions with a biological function again.” His hand covers John’s. “Until you, that is.”

 

“You turned me down…” John says softly.

 

“I didn't think you would stay, so I didn't allow you in at first. I  couldn't deduce you….at least not when it came to me.” Sherlock entwines their fingers, admiring them as if they are a precious sculpture. “When you seemed disappointed that I would not be attending the party tonight, a flicker of hope blossomed until I saw you with that woman.”

 

John sighs. “I’ve been burying my attraction to you in many pointless relationships.”

 

“Then I hope you will agree that ends tonight. No more insipid woman,” Sherlock states.

 

“No more chatting up grabby Yanks,” John teases.

 

“It's a pact and a promise.” Sherlock shudders. “He had the worst chronic halitosis.”

 

“We'll have tongues wagging at the Met, that's for certain.” John shudders violently.

 

“Right, when we get to the flat, you need to get to a lukewarm shower while I light a fire.” Sherlock pulls him closer.

 

“What about the body heat?”

 

Sherlock meets the eyes of the cab driver in the rear view mirror. “I promise plenty of heat once you've thawed.”

 

John presses his face into Sherlock's neck. “Good, because I want to make up for lost time.” He reaches up to kiss Sherlock, savouring the traces of tea, mint and even the stale aftertaste of gin and lime.

 

The taxi swerves as it pulls in front of Baker Street. At least three inches coat the pavement. Sherlock tucks a shivering John under his arm. He pauses for a moment to look up at the white lights that frame their windows. He had protested as John stood on a chair and tacked them around the window frame. Now with the falling snow on an unusually quiet Baker Street, Sherlock feels almost cheerful. Before directing John to the front door, he gently cups his inebriated flatmate’s face to kiss him as snowflakes float around them. It's the kind of romantic gesture that would normally cause Sherlock to snort with disgust. All this seasonal sentiment is for fools, but tonight he's happy to join them.

 

“John! John!” A voice calls from across the street.

 

Sherlock steps away to see Greg crossing the street with John's jacket in hand.

 

Greg stops short just inches from the kerb. “Oh, Sherlock…”

 

John's face light up. “My jacket!”

 

“Celia said you took off without it. I tried calling but your mobile is in the pocket.” Greg shuffles forward to hand the jacket to him.

 

“Thanks, Sherlock found me. I was pretty…”

 

“Drunk. He needs to get out of these wet clothes,” Sherlock interrupts. “Thank you, Lestrade, for returning his coat.”

 

Greg looks from Sherlock to John, and a small smile pulls on the corners of his mouth.

 

“You're welcome. I'll let you get on with your night. If I don't see you, have a great Christmas,” Greg waves.

 

Sherlock presses his hand to John's back to guide him to the door. “Tell Celia that John's boyfriend appreciates her concern for his well being.”

 

“Uh, okay. Night.” Greg huddles against the cold to find the nearest Tube station.

 

“Well that's one way to announce us,” John says.

 

“Problem?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Only if you didn't mean it.” John pauses in the doorway.

 

“With every breath I take,” Sherlock whispers.

 

“Then come in here and warm your boyfriend up before he loses an appendage.”

 

Sherlock's grin turns feral. “Gladly.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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